


Saline Spectrum

by poetatertot



Series: Spectrum [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, hot cheeto/takis discourse, lance craves that mineral, talks during sunrise/sunset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 12:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: “Sometimes,” Keith murmurs, “I like to imagine I’m out there. Not in our Lions or anything. Just.. by myself.”"Me too." Lance nervously runs his tongue over his teeth. He can still taste the slightest flavor of salt, left over from before. "Maybe someday we can go together."Everything is different when you're in space, but Lance discovers some things taste the same no matter where you are.





	Saline Spectrum

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of stuff saved in my drive but I still decided to start something new?? And then spend two weeks working on it instead of, yknow, finishing anything else?  
> Basically this is a tiny labor of love and I didn't proofread it so I'm sorry if there are mistakes. Please let me know if there are any!

The first time Lance tastes his own blood in his mouth, he’s six years old. His mother Maria brings him a tissue as quickly as she can, cooing and shushing him all the while. The sensation is unfamiliar and entirely unpleasant; liquids should not be so warm, so salty to the taste if it isn’t for drinking. The streak of scarlet smears out of his gaping mouth onto his palm, bubbling around the tooth that’s popped free from his gums. It looks like a little pearly stone in his hand.

“If you bury it under your pillow, the fairy will come,” Mama says. She smiles and the lines around her eyes crinkle, sinking into warm, brown skin. “Be sure to rinse it off first though, baby.”

Lance can feel the hole in his mouth, where the tooth had felt like it would always be. He had never considered anything grown in his head would ever _fall out_ — the idea is macabre, bizarre, disturbing. He pokes the hole gently with the tip of his tongue.

“It aches, Mama,” he mumbles, once he’s rinsed his mouth with a cup of water. “It _aches._ ”

“That’s cause your big-boy tooth is growing in, baby,” Mama says, rubbing the top of his head. “Your adult teeth.”

“ _Adult_ teeth?” Lance can barely wrap his head around the idea of every single tooth popping free from his mouth, raining into his hand in a mountain of pearls. He isn’t sure he wants it to happen. Not if he has to have a mouthful of blood every time.

“Don’t worry, _calabacito,_ ” she croons, recognizing his fear. “Just remember to put the tooth under your pillow. The tooth fairy always makes it worthwhile.” She winks. “Be sure to tell Papa about it when he comes home, alright?”

“Yes Mama,” Lance chimes.

And she’s right. When Lance wakes the next morning, his nubby tooth has been replaced by a shiny stack of quarters. They don’t fit into the gap in his smile, sure, but the zebra cake he buys with the change is enough to put that salty flavor out of his mind for now.

***

The second time Lance tastes salt, he’s standing on one end of the dining room table. His older brother, Anthony, is sporting a fat lip that mirrors his own from where he glowers at the other end. Between them is Maria, steadfast and small. Her finger has been shaking from pointing at the two of them for at least ten minutes.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you boys,” she says for the umpteenth time, “but it needs to stop. _Right now.”_

Neither of them want to admit what the argument was about. Lance’s eyes alight on the framed photo behind Anthony’s head, the big one that hangs in between a montage of memories. His father smiles back at him from the photo, frozen in black-and-white.

_“I want to be a pilot, Tony,” he confessed softly. The salty sea air trickled through his layers, sending goosebumps across his skin. “I want to go up_ there _, where Papa was.”_

_“Are you crazy?” Tony snarled, whipping around to glare at him. His eyes, dark like their mother’s, were bottomless without the sunset. “You wanna go and break Mom’s heart?”_

_“It won’t be the same,” Lance murmured, feeling his fists clench up. He had_ known _that Tony wouldn’t approve. But how could Lance explain the way his heart expands when he looks at the stars? How could he possibly tell Tony that he wants to go up_ because _that’s where Papa was? “I won’t.. It won’t be the same.”_

_“You don’t know that!” Tony had never looked away, stone-faced even when his eyes shone with unshed tears. “You’re leaving us, just like he did. Did you ever think of that?”_

_“Tony—”_

_“_ No. _” Tony scowled then, his face twisting as the tears began to fall. “You didn’t think. It’s always been about_ you _, Lance.”_

_“You’re wrong,” Lance whispered, but there was no convincing Tony. Before he could speak another word, Tony swung forward, eyelashes wet. And then all Lance could taste was blood._

When Lance finally sums up the courage to tell his mother, she doesn’t scream or cry the way Tony does. She stands there at the stove, hands frozen in the lump of bread dough she’d been kneading, and stares at the oven timer as it ticks through the last fifteen seconds.

“If that’s what you want, baby,” Mama says. “If that’s what you want.” But Lance knows. He can see her hands shaking when she turns the timer off.

“I’m going to be the best pilot the planet’s ever seen,” he tries to say, but the words sound weak and false. “I _will._ ”  
He has to make them true, for the sake of his family.

***

_I never got to say goodbye._

The reality of the moment is something Lance has always had trouble grasping. What did the Garrison tell his family about his disappearance? Do they know he’s gone into space? Do they think he’s dead? Lance can picture them all around the dining table, from his Mama on one end, through his younger siblings and his abuelos, to Tony on the other end.

Would they have left an empty plate at the table for him?

The salt is familiar by now. Lance knows that flavor in all its saline spectrum; he’s ready for it when it falls in the heat of battle, trickling across his tongue like a bitter, old reminder of his own weakness. He tastes it now, running sluggishly from the hole on the inside of his cheek. He’s chewed into the meat of his face again. Hunk will be worried.

The deck is empty, all the lights dimmed in order to simulate an Earth night. If Lance squints and slightly crosses his eyes, he can almost believe the walls of the castle are part of space — that he’s out there, suitless, careening through galaxies and nebulas alone. The idea is terrifying in of itself; Lance has already risked death by ejection more than once. But still, if there was a way to fly free without fear of death, to just float forever out there..

Well, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

“Lance?”

It’s Keith, fully dressed in his day clothes, emerging from the entryway. The only sign of relaxation he bears is his tiny ponytail. Despite the open chasm creaking in Lance’s chest, he can’t help the faintest quirk of his lips. The ponytail is tiny and dumb, but it plays up the sharp angles of Keith’s face like he wouldn’t believe.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” He sits down on the ground beside Lance, just far away enough that their pinkies barely brush.

“No,” Lance mumbles. He hates how soft and broken his voice sounds, even in that tiny utterance. Is it that obvious, the way he’s simmering in silence? He coughs, clearing his throat. “Not yet.”

“Me neither,” Keith says. He doesn’t comment on the way Lance’s voice cracks, but the elephant sits between them anyway. For how dense Keith normally is, he chooses now to be silent. They sit peaceably and allow the low hum of the ship echo between them for a time.

“Sometimes,” Keith murmurs, “I like to imagine I’m out there flying by myself.” He pauses, chewing on his bottom lip, and turns just enough for Lance to see the way the stars reflect in the deep violet of his eyes. _Oh._ “Not in a ship. Just.. by myself.”

They blink at each other.

“Me too,” Lance admits, forcing himself to look away first. The salty tang on his cheek is fading, now that he’s not furiously gnawing on it. He hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

For all the hot-headed shit that Keith gets the rest of them into, Lance decides it wouldn’t be _so_ bad, floating through space with him. Well, more than they already are. It could even be enjoyable.

They don’t say anything more, reveling in the slow shift of the universe around them, and Lance finally feels the sting in his chest begin to abate. It’s still there, knife-like and ragged at the edges, but Keith’s presence is helping him breathe again. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep in an hour or two.

It’s enough, for now.

***

When Empress Exia’s servants put the food in front of them, it’s all Lance can do to sit still. His mouth is watering just looking at the various trays and bowls. Beside him, Hunk sounds suspiciously like he might be crying.

The hailing signal was a surprise, two days prior. They had been a day into recovery from their last battle, drifting towards the closest sign of peaceful civilization — when it had reached them first.

Empress Exia cuts a striking figure standing at the end of the grand table. She towers over them all, all six limbs sinuous and shiny like brass piping. The scales covering her skin interweave and reflect every light in the room; she practically _glows._ If there’s one unnerving thing that Lance would have to put his finger on, it’s the eyes. He’s seen his fair share of alien races by now, but eyes on the back of someone’s head is never something he gets used to.

As if she can hear his thoughts, Exia’s fourth eye swivels at her temple and trains on Lance.

“Please,” she hisses, baring two rows of razor teeth. He’s pretty sure she’s smiling. “Enjoy the meal.”

“When will we discuss negotiations?” Shiro frowns. “You mentioned you were willing to help our cause, in the message.” He sits, back straight in his chair, his eyes never moving from Empress Exia’s face. Lance wonders how he knows which eyes to focus on.

“Soon we will talk,” Exia slithers. She extends one limb over the table, palm upwards, and gestures at the rows of dishes. “The chefs have spent many hours preparing. Would you not honor their labor?”

Lance doesn’t need to be told twice. He spoons the closest dish into his mouth — something olive-green and whipped like meringue — and relishes the flavor. For all of Hunk’s master cooking, there isn’t too many ways you can redesign the ship’s food goo. Hunk doesn’t seem to harbor any bad feelings at the way Pidge groans from across the table; if anything, he seems to tear up even more with every bite.

It’s been a long week.

Some dishes are bitter, others so sour that tears sting at the corners of Lance’s eyes. He tricks Keith into slurping what seems to be a fruit, only to gag on the overly-sour bits in the middle. The conversation is easy, laughter brightening the fuller their stomachs become. Lance decides his favorite dish is a circular, jelly-like cake; it’s sweet to taste, and delightfully salty after swallowing. He helps himself to two of those.

He’s just scraping his spoon against the plate when the Empress calls the dinner to its end. They lean back in their seats as servants rush out, clearing the table so fast Lance can barely get a good look at them. He catches a glimpse of one dark eye in the back of a head and the sheen of grey scales before the room is silent again, devoid of dinner’s traces.

“Now,” Empress Exia sighs, adjusting herself on her throne, “we speak.” She peers over the lot of them, scrutinizing each of their faces. “What would you have of me?”

“Whatever is possible, your majesty.” Allura tilts her head, careful to look at all of the eyes equally. “Any aid against the Empire is appreciated. Tools, supplies—”

“Soldiers?”

Allura pauses, biting her lip. “I.. would not ask of you what you are unwilling to give up. But, if that is what you are willing—”

“Princess,” Shiro cuts in softly. “We need all the help we can get. Voltron can’t do everything by itself.”  
“I know that as well as you do,” Empress Exia hisses, running one arm over her neck scales. “I have thought much about this endeavor, long before you chanced across our system.” Her teeth glinted yellow in the light. “Which is why I have already made the decision. Our arms are yours.”

The head of the table erupts into noise. Allura and Shiro are talking over one another, talking together, inquiring and overlapping with the gentle, slithering sounds of Exia’s twin tongues. Lance allows himself to sit back in his chair. He feels oddly numb.

“Outside help,” Keith mutters from across the table. He’s almost scowling, dark eyebrows drawn together.

“We could use it.” Pidge leans their head against one hand, staring at the table. “It’s hard, working with just the five of us. Don’t you think?”

“Can we trust them, though?” Hunk is careful to keep his voice hushed, sparing the briefest of glances at the Empress. “We’ve only just met.”

“It would be dumb to say no.” Lance runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting leftover salt. “I don’t know about you guys, but I say it’s a go.”

It seems that, despite Allura and Keith’s qualms, they accept Exia’s help within ten minutes. Shiro and Allura walk off with several advisors to make tactical plans. The rest are dismissed to rest for the evening.

“It looks like we’ll be here for a couple more days.” Lance waggles his eyebrows. “Do you think we’ve got time to look around? I bet there’s some cool stuff in the city.”

“This isn’t play-time, Lance,” Keith says. He walks ahead of the rest of them on their trip back to the castleship. “We need to be preparing for what comes next.”  
“You think I don’t know that?” Lance scowls. “We’ve been working our butts off for God knows how long. _I_ say we deserve a break.”  
“Too bad it isn’t your decision.”  
“What, so you’re in charge now?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Keith whips around, eyes blazing. His fists are clenched so tightly, Lance is almost worried he might hit him. Almost. “We can never be too careful. Just because _you_ think this is a game, doesn’t mean it is one. It’s not about what _you_ want, okay?”

The words are a bullet to the chest.

_It’s always been about you, Lance._

“I’m going to bed,” Lance mutters. He shoves past Keith for the bay doors, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Don’t wait up for me tomorrow.”

He knows Keith is right, but he’s tired of playing soldier. He’s only ever wanted to be a good pilot for his Mama, after all.

***

“What do you think?” Hunk laughs, turning around. He’s smiling so hard that his eyes have become slits, all teeth gleaming in a wide grin. The headdress on his head is almost too small, squeezing his hair up and out like a pineapple.

“Psh, that’s nothing.” Pidge pops out from behind a long mirror, donned in what looks like four scarves all at once. The scarves are wrapped so tightly around their head that only the rims of their glasses peek out. “Look, I’m a ninja!”

Lance smiles weakly. “I”m going to have to give this one to Hunk,” he says. Pidge’s head pops out the top of their scarf wrap, little hairs sticking everywhere. They return his smile, soft and careful.

He appreciates his friend’s efforts. Lance hadn’t intended to rise any earlier than noon — he’d been unable to sleep until far too late in the night — but the two had burst into his bedroom as soon as the sun rose. They made him get dressed, and watched him like a hawk over breakfast to ensure that he ate. He was practically dragged into the marketplace of the capitol by his elbows.

“Where do you want to go next, Lance?” Hunk placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s almost time for lunch, I think.”

“You _always_ think it’s time for lunch,” Pidge snipes, but nobody disagrees with the idea. They set off again, thanking the stall owner for their patience.

Low mood or not, Lance has to admit that the city is pretty cool. All of the citizens they pass seem to be part of the attractions themselves, scales glinting in metallic shades of red, blue, and yellow. Combined with the richly-colored tents and the heavy wafting smells, it’s as if they’ve walked into a huge, mosaic dome. There are snack stalls and fabric stalls, strange inventions and gadgets, calls for prices in a slithering language Lance doesn’t know.

He follows Pidge’s lead, falling into step beside Hunk. They have to keep a constant eye on Pidge; they’re so small, Hunk is always worried about getting separated.

“You know,” Hunk murmurs, eyes following Pidge as they flit from stall to stall, “you don’t have to pretend you’re fine. We can tell you’re not.”  
“Everything will be fine,” Lance says firmly. He can see Hunk peeking at him from his peripheral but refuses to look. “I just.. have to get over it is all.”

Hunk doesn’t look the least bit convinced. “You’re not going to try and talk it out?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Lance stares hard at a red pennant ahead of them. It flutters violently in the wind, streaming red ribbons across the sky. “Keith has his own priorities.”

“But that isn’t all, is it?”

Lance stops in his tracks. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. He trains his gaze on Pidge, who’s stopped to talk to some stall owner about their metal contraptions.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he sighs. “Not.. right now.”

“If you’re sure,” Hunk nods. “But I’m just saying. You’ll need to talk to him eventually.”

The afternoon passes a little easier after that. They all share what looks like fried meat on a stick, and a baggie of sticky, clear sweets that resemble the salty jelly from dinner. Lance sucks the leftover mineral off of his fingers, trailing behind Hunk and Pidge as they walk back to the ship. The sun is beginning to lower in the sky.

He’s only a hundred feet from the ship when someone steps in his way.

“Can I talk to you?” Keith asks. He’s practically glaring at Lance, as if he expects him to disagree. Lance definitely wants to. But then he catches Hunk’s gaze from over Keith’s shoulder, the meaningful look he serves him as he ushers Pidge inside, and then shuts the door behind them.

Alright, so this is happening.

“I guess,” Lance mutters. Suddenly the salt on his tongue hurts. He crams the bag into his pocket. “Are you gonna snap at me again?”

“If you had just—” Keith exhales sharply. “No. I won’t. As long as _you_ don’t.”

They walk a bit of a ways from the ship, stopping at a small cliff. The city spills out below them, already beginning to twinkle with night lights, stretching for what feels like miles. A single, curling plume of smoke billows from the center, where Lance knows the marketplace is. It’ll be closing up soon.

“Okay.” Lance stops at the cliff’s edge. He refuses to turn around. “Talk.”

“Are you going to look at me?”

“Do I have to?”

“You’re not making this any easier,” Keith huffs. Lance can imagine him even with his back turned: cheeks flushed, one hand running through his godawful mullet. “Look, I just.. Things have to go well. Perfectly. You know what happens if they don’t.”  
“I know,” Lance murmurs. He’s been conscious of his death sentence for too long. It doesn’t even really scare him anymore.

“Then why?” Keith steps up next to him, staring out over the vista. “You always make everything a joke. Do you understand how annoying that is?”

Lance kicks a stone, watching it roll and tumble down, down, down the cliffside. “You wouldn’t understand,” he mutters. “You’re _strong._ You don’t.. you’re used to it all.” Bitterness curls up in his gut.

“Is that what you really think?” Keith grabs his arm, forcing him to turn and look. “Lance. You don’t think I’m also scared shitless?”

“Well, I mean—”  
“You’re an idiot,” Keith breathes. The sun is setting behind Lance; he can see it’s reflection in Keith’s eyes, bright spots of orange in the dark. “A huge idiot.”  
“Well excuse _me_ , princess, not everybody knows how to play the stoic hero!”

“I’m not _expecting_ you to, I’m just,” Keith’s nostrils flare. He’s still squeezing Lance’s arm. “Look. If it really scares you.. you know you can always come talk to me.”

“Do I?” Lance laughs weakly. He feels a little dizzy all of a sudden.

“ _Now_ you do,” Keith snaps, but his cheeks are flushing again. Lance can see it, even with the both of them cast orange from the blinding sunset. “Really. You don’t have to shoulder it alone. We’re all in this together.”

“Thanks, Troy Bolton.”  
“What?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.” Lance breaks his gaze to look out over the city again. All of the buildings seem to glow supernaturally, like a huge, sparkling bedrock on the open landscape. A warm wind is starting up, rustling through his jacket, and Lance peeks to see Keith tucking his hair behind his ears.

Lance lets himself smile a little. For all the places in the universe he could’ve ended up in right now, he’s _here._

“We should head back soon,” Keith murmurs, once the sun has fully set.

“Yeah,” Lance agrees. He crams his hands in his pockets, brushing the bag of jellies. “Oh, hey. Want some candy?”

Keith’s eyes crinkle up at the corners but he doesn’t say no. They suck on the last of the bag, salty and sweet, and make the short walk home. Their shoulders and pinkies brush all the while.

***

Fire in the sky.

Lance has always dreamed of it, even as a child. He would stay up and sit in the stairwell, peeking in on Tony and his friends when they would come over for movie night. They _always_ chose movies about space travel or aliens or the apocalypse. Lance would sit, frozen in his pajamas, and watch. Soaking it all in. He would wake up in the darkness afterwards, tiny chest heaving, sweat beading at his temples — but he wasn’t really _afraid._ Those movies were exciting because something like an alien invasion could never be. It was fantasy.

Irony is a funny thing, he thinks.

“We need to get back to the ship. _Now!”_ Allura is running with one hand holding up the weight of her dress. She’d only been down the hall, speaking with Exia on the final tallies and launch preparation. Shiro is a hulking force beside her. His mouth is a flat, grim line.  “Where are the other paladins?”

“I— I don’t know.” Lance winces. Pidge had talked about needing some extra parts to make additions to their lions, but he didn’t know if that required leaving the castle. Wherever it was, Hunk had gone with them. “Keith is probably on his way there, though.” _Or at least, I hope so._ Lance doesn’t know what he’d do if they found out Keith was missing too.

The cityscape beyond the castle walls is hell. Flaming debris is raining down from buildings as they crumble, hot embers flying in the warm wind like furious fireflies. Lance tries to breathe and chokes. The air is hot and so thick with smoke it curls and clogs in his lungs like a dead weight.

As Lance falls in line behind Shiro, he can see the marketplace rising into a massive blaze beyond the brims of buildings. It’s fate is unmistakeable, really. The center of town was dedicated to commerce. Now it’s become a massive fireball. The heat of it beads at his temples, pooling underneath his armpits. Everything is ash and smoke and dust.

“Cover your face!” Allura’s voice is shrill, hoarse over the din of the city’s people screaming and running. She doesn’t waver for a moment, ripping a huge piece from the corner of her dress, tying it around her face. Shiro and Lance automatically follow her lead — what’s one shirt, after all?

They stick to the perimeter of the main streets, running through aligning sidestreets and alleyways. There is less destruction here; it appears the focus of the attacks is at the centre, where most of the population is. They run past fallen citizens, friends and families clutching each other and sobbing openly. One person, leaned up beside a dumpster, is dreadfully still.

“We can’t stop,” Shiro grunts, pushing Lance along. He shoves him into a sprint again — when had he slowed down in the first place? “We have to get to the lions.” Lance tears his gaze away, acid and salt in his mouth. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

When they make it to the ship, Lance suits up faster than he has in over a week. He can already feel the telltale sting in his jaw, the way his eyes won’t focus on more than what’s right in front of him. Break-time is over.

He steps into the hangar and immediately feels a low swoop in his gut. There’s Keith, and Hunk, and Pidge, all suited up and preparing for launch.

“You’re safe,” he breathes, unable to stop the weird sting in his eyes. Hunk gives him a lopsided grimace.

“We were on our way back when they opened fire. Lucky break.”

“Let’s go!” Shiro calls over the comm, and then they’re up, out, and away into the flaming heavens that meet space.

 

The battle lasts too long. By the time the last Galran ship has been blown to pieces, Exia’s beloved city is a smoking, black sore in the earth. The marketplace looks eerily like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb — there’s nothing left there to salvage, every pennant and tent reduced to curling smoke and ash. The buildings around it echo the point of disaster, backscaling on levels of damage to the city walls. Even Exia’s palace bears signs of wreckage in its first and second walls, its blown-out windows, debris of the city strewn into its open garden and walkway.

It goes without saying, Lance thinks. They’ll find no help here. Not anymore.

***

After the destruction of Exia’s home it gets harder to find allies. People want to have faith in Voltron — they smile and welcome them, they give thanks when they save people and solve disputes — but nobody wants to offer help so openly anymore. They’ve all heard of what happened to Empress Exia. Nobody wants to be next on a growing list of targets.

They fight their battles alone.

It doesn’t help that the spaces between fights are also getting shorter. Lance doesn’t know how exactly how many days its been — they’ve long given up on any semblance of a calendar — but the exhaustion is taking its toll. There are shadows under everyone’s eyes, sallow skin and chewed lips. Lance’s whole face aches as if he’s taken a sledgehammer to it. He hasn’t been able to stop clenching his teeth for a long time.

It’s the team’s first break in what feels like over a week, but nobody wants to sleep in. Their bodies are numb, worn to the point of near-breaking. Maybe it’s _because_ they’ve worked so long that their eyes won’t close. Lance doesn’t even want to look in the mirror; the damage he’s done to his skin is probably horrific. He’ll deal with it later.

Instead, he rises with the sun. Allura had managed to find a dead planet at the edge of their local system, one barren of anything but chalky, purple dust that gently coats all the windows. She leaves to rest with Coran just as the sky starts to lighten in color, Shiro following not long after.

When dawn comes the sky becomes the sweet, vibrant color of a grapefruit. Magenta light seeps in through the open deck, dyeing Keith and Pidge’s pale skin like wine; if Lance squints hard enough, he can believe that their silhouettes have become giant, juicy grapes.

“Grapes,” he mutters. Hunk’s eyes slide over to him from where he’s sprawled on the ground, staring at the rising sun. “I miss them.”

“Grapes,” Hunk echoes. He blinks slowly, gaze wandering to stare at the ship’s ceiling. Licks his lips. “And.. blackberries. Remember blackberries?” His mouth twists into a frown. “How long has it been since I had a blackberry?”

“Don’t think about it,” Pidge grumbles. They’re also lying on the floor, arms spreadeagled as if they might be making angels in the dust. “I don’t want to know anymore.”  
“You don’t? But—”

“If we try counting,” they huff, “then you’ll start to get upset. I’m too tired to be upset right now.”

“That’s valid,” Lance mumbles. The words are slurring out, but his eyes still won’t close.

“You know what I miss?” Keith juts in all of a sudden. Lance had forgotten he was even there; he sat, cross-legged and stone still, staring out at the lightening sky. As his eyes slide over to Keith, he gets to see what his eyelashes look like in profile. They glow vibrantly violet, as if to bleed into the shade of his irises, and Lance tingles from the tips of his toes to his ears.

“I miss.. Taki’s.”

Lance blinks. “I’m sorry— _what?_ ”

Keith shrugs, his shoulders squinching up to his ears. “Y’know.. Takis,” he mutters. “The.. the rolled chips. With the—”

“ _Yes,_ I know Takis,” Lance huffs, exasperated. “Who doesn’t? The point is that I didn’t peg _you_ , of all people, to actually enjoy good food.” He sticks his nose up in the air. “You seem like more of a hot Cheetos kind of guy.”  
“What’s the difference?”

The other three stare at him in varying levels of revulsion and horror.

“ _How dare you—”_

“This is sacrilege, Keith, what are—”

“The _difference!_ ” Hunk squawks, arms flailing. “You’re asking about the _difference—”_

The conversation devolves into overlapping shrieks for a while. They trade favorite snack foods, then favorite sodas ( _“no Keith, Pepsi and Coke do_ not _taste the same!”)_ before moving on to the first foods they’re going to make when they get home. Lance’s voice turns hoarse very quickly into his description of his mother’s flan, and eventually they have to settle into silence for the sake of their ringing ears and dry throats.

Lance’s face aches but it isn’t so bad anymore; his heart feels like it’s going to fly straight out of his mouth. His eyes are also getting really heavy.

“Hey,” he mutters into the gentle quiet. He makes himself turn to look at Keith, who at some point moved to sit next to Lance’s outstretched knee. Past him Hunk has already fallen asleep with his mouth open. Pidge is also still. They could be asleep too.

Keith tilts his head but doesn’t look at Lance directly. It’s almost better that way; with his face at an angle, the blood-orange sunlight casts half his face into sharp relief and leaves the other half in shadow. He looks _warm_ around the edges. “Yeah?” His voice is just as hoarse.

“When we get back to Earth. I want..” Lance licks his lips. “I want to see the sun rise. That’s the first thing I want to see.”

Keith doesn’t say anything for a long time. He waits until Lance is spread on his back too, letting the open sunlight pour over everything around them, allows Lance’s eyes to close and his heart rate to slow until he’s nearly asleep. The room is quiet and warm, finally peaceful. Only the ship’s hum can carry above their breathing.

His voice, low and raspy, echoes at the edge of Lance’s’ consciousness.

“Me too,” he whispers. “We can watch it together.”

***

The days and nights blur together in a tumbling haze. When was the last time Lance slept? The last time he took a long shower? The last time he dreamed? Even he doesn’t know. His life has become nothing but waking to struggle and crashing into sleep. Meals are mechanical, tasteless. None of them have the strength or will to train any more than necessary. They’re worn too thin.

Somewhere in the middle of it all — while brushing his teeth, putting on his clothes when he _knows_ he’s going to have to change into armor later — Lance remembers his initial thrill at becoming a defender of the universe. It had sounded so _cool_. He was going to make his Mama proud.

Lance laughs once, spitting into the sink. For all he knew, his Mama didn’t even know she still had a third son.

He notices, reaching the deck where the others are already stationed, that something has changed. Pidge is gesticulating wildly about something, mouth moving so fast their tongue stumbles over syllables, hair a frizzy mess; beside them, Hunk is nodding so much his head might pop off. Coran and Allura are off to the side, staring at a tablet between them, murmuring in hushed voices. Shiro stands unnaturally straight — just yesterday, Lance remembers, he’d had trouble doing so without leaning against something.

“What’s going on?” He raises an eyebrow at Keith, who’s standing back from all of this with his arms crossed. He looks perplexed, mouth pulled down in what Lance recognizes as his thinking face. “Keith?”

“We’ve got a message.” He looks sideways at Lance. “From rebel forces.”

“Rebel forces? Who..” Lance stops. Blinks. “You don’t — _Rolo and Nyma?_ ”

“And more.” Keith looks up at the control screens, pointing to a smattering of dots across their block of space. Even as Lance watches, he can see them all moving. There’s a _lot._ “They’re converging on our location. Say they’re done waiting for us to end the war.”

“They want in? But didn’t they say—”

“They’ve changed their mind.” Keith wrinkles his nose.

“Took them long enough,” Lance sniffs, feigning irritation, but the relief bubbling in his gut is all real. _Rebel forces on their way._ He stares up at the vast span of blinking points. They could do a lot with numbers like that.

They could end the war.

Lance bits his lip, feeling his face twisting into a smile. It’s been so long that his cheeks ache and the movement feels unfamiliar, unused. It aches, but it’s good. _We could end the war._

“Message incoming!” Coran calls, and then the screens are changing, flickering, and there’s Rolo and Nyma and an unfamiliar man beside them. All of their fists are clasped before their chest in a sign of solidarity.

“This is rebel ship #158,” Rolo says, managing to sound relaxed even though they can all see the tired bags beneath his eyes. He smirks. “We’ve got someone we think you’d want to meet.”

***

The lights careen past in a kaleidoscope, brilliant violet and veridian, blooming buttercup yellow and a blue so piercing it makes Lance’s eyes water. All of it is beautiful, eerily so, past the shuddering vibrations of explosions and the alarm system’s high-pitched screaming. He stares out, ribcage so tight it felt as if it might crush all of the organs inside.

“We did.. good,” he manages to gasp, pushing the sound past the blockage in his throat. He’s worried it might not be enough, but no, there’s Keith sending streaks of flame through small fighter jets as if it were nothing. Together, followed by their own faction of rebel forces, they had managed to cover the right side of the fleet, cutting a clean path to the Galra’s main ship. “Good job, Blue.”

Lance tries to keep his breathing as even as possible, though the effort is making spots burst in his vision. He doesn’t dare look down at himself. He knows, solely based on the warm trickle of salt in his mouth and the hot, excruciating swath across his abdomen, that he’s not doing so hot.

But they’re _so close_ — he can practically taste it. The plan, born from rebel intelligence and their own nights, is finally coming to fruition; already, most of Zarkon’s artillery has been destroyed. The battleships are blown. The soldiers have been cast aside with the help of rebel forces. They’re nearly _there._

He can’t draw attention to himself now, not when Keith is making his way towards the lead ship’s main starboard engine. Lance watches the Red Lion as it shoots through space, a streak of crimson in a sea of darkness. His breathing is sharp and his heart is pumping into overdrive, but Lance can still feel that swell in his chest all the same. Even now, when everything is moving around them, the Empire’s reign coming to an end right before their very eyes, he can feel it.

He hadn’t meant to grow so fond of Keith. All he’d wanted in the beginning was to be the best, the way he promised his family he’d be. Keith was handsome, sure, but he was also an obstacle Lance had to get past. If he was going to fulfill his promise, Lance had to beat him.

He could see now how stupid that idea was. There was no way to beat Keith — not when he acted on instinct, when his skill and strength all flowed from innate ability. Lance could work every day for the rest of his life, but the struggle would never be instinct. That wasn’t who he was.

But that wasn’t all, now was it? Watching Keith for months, _years_ — there was no way he could stare for so long and not notice, not see those long eyelashes and the way Keith’s hair curled around the nape of his neck. The way his fingers tapped thoughtfully on firm biceps when he was lost in thought. The way his nose wrinkled when he was trying not laugh.

The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, pinching sweetly the way Mama’s always had, when he began to smile.

Lance licks at the leaking gash in his lip, tasting that familiar tang of his own blood. Maybe, when this is all over, when they’ve finally got the chance to catch their breath, to look each other in the eye again. Maybe.

He’s barely holding on, but it's enough to see everything come to an end.

“We did it,” he whispers, just as the whole Galran ship sparks, blazing brilliantly with the glow of its own power. He can see its outline for the briefest second, glowing purple from the inside out, before the light swells and consumes everything in its rays. The shrapnel is nonexistent in the blast, all obliterated in an instant of light and heat that coats Lance’s body in sweat.

There’s no blast in space, but Lance can hear the cries and shouts of his teammates. Even with after-images seared into his retinas, Lance has the strength to cheer along the rest of them. Their voices mingle and create static: Hunk’s relieved sobbing, Pidge’s high-pitched cheers, Shiro’s warm laughter, Keith’s husky exclamations of triumph, Allura’s lyrical laughter, Coran’s jubilant whoops, and Lance’s own, weak chuckles of relief. _It’s over._

Outside, hundreds of battered rebel ships shoot past Lance’s lion, whirling through space. Even from where he’s sitting, he can see their grins, the shudder of their laughter when they fly close enough. They’re beaten, but they’ve _won._

“I can’t believe it,” Allura finally says over the intercom. Her voice wobbles ever so slightly. “We… we’ve finally done it.” She’s beginning to sniffle.

Lance sits back in his chair —   _really_ sits back. His whole body hurts, but the sharp stabbing in his side is becoming unbearable. His breathing is shallow, every gasp a horrible lance of agony in his side. His blood has coated most of the seat, making the left armrest slippery to the touch. He stares dumbly at that spot of red, letting his vision swim around the strange muted shade of red. It looks so dark, compared to the neon plethora of streaming beams outside his Lion. Almost black..

But the vibrant colors are bleeding away, melting from the corners of his vision too. Everything is getting dark and soft. He’s so _tired._

He takes one last, shuddering breath and passes out.

***

The first thing Lance notices is the cold.

He doesn’t know exactly where he is — his eyes feel so heavy, it’s impossible to open them all the way — but he’s shivering. The goosebumps are slicing down his spine, erupting on every exposed surface. His teeth are chattering so loudly in his skull that he fears he’ll crack them. When did he get so cold?

The second is the taste, like copper pennies on his palate. He knows that flavor anywhere. Time and time again, crisis tastes like too much salt.

“..needs… for a little longer..”

The first voice is high and almost reedy, slithering through the heavy fog smothering Lance’s senses. It calls to him from so far away, he’s tempted to ignore it. Maybe, after a little more rest, he can try to listen again—

“Don’t.”

_Ah._ Of course. The low rumble is a lot closer, familiar and strong even in its obvious misuse. _Keith._ Lance’s eyes won’t open more than a crack, but he can tell the man must be next to him. There’s a shadow falling in the grey that swims and fills Lance’s vision. An arm, outstretching from that blob, reaching for something.

It’s not his problem, Lance thinks. Not yet, anyway. He’s so exhausted. He’ll close his eyes for just a few more seconds, and everything will be fine.

“Lance. _Lance._ ”

Why does he sound so frantic?

“Wake.. up,” Keith is saying, his rasp clear through the heavy water. “Wake _up._ ” And then Lance is shaking, trembling harder than his teeth can rattle, shaking with a violence that doesn’t belong to his own body.

“Oh my God,” a third voice groans. Lance feels as if he’s being wrenched forward by his shoulder sockets, up and up, through that pool. The voices are becoming sharp the longer they speak. “You’re going to open his wounds again, Keith. Stop— stop _shaking_ him like that!”

“Hunk is right,” a stern, fourth voice cuts in. “”We really should—”

“He needs to wake up!” Keith snaps. His voice is becoming crystal clear, a knife directly in Lance’s eardrum. “I won’t let him sleep through—”  
“Hmugh?” Lance tries to speak but his tongue is too big for his mouth. He feels as if he’s swallowed a whole bag of cotton. His throat is so _dry_ , and everything tastes like salt. “Huh?”

The sigh is hot and sharp, a blast of warmth rushing over his cold skin. It also stinks.

Lance peeks open an eye and stares up into violet.

“Lance,” Keith whispers. His eyelashes are wet, shining even in the half-light with something Lance is afraid to name. He looks like a wreck, covered in scratches and taped gauze. He’s even got a heavy bruise beneath one eye.

“You stink, buddy,” Lance chokes. He realizes that he’s being held up by a strong set of arms. _Keith’s_ arms.

“Sorry,” Keith snaps. His cheeks are flushing pink, coloring his face past the rainbow of bruises. “Forgot to bathe, what with you _nearly dying_ and all.” The venom in his tone is weakened by how hoarse it is, shaking with every breath. Lance watches as one of Keith’s hands comes into vision, two fingers taped together. He brushes a tendril of hair away from Lance’s forehead with a delicateness utterly at odds with his ghastly appearance. “Anyway, we’re nearly there.”  
“Nearly.. where?”

Keith’s face doesn’t change expression, but Lance sees everything he needs to in those deep, dark eyes.

_No._ He won’t allow the hope to bubble in his chest — it’s been too _long._ He’s freezing and it’s impossible. He feels like he’s going to be cold and hot and sick. He’s _going_ to be sick. Don’t say it unless you mean it, he thinks frantically, _don’t say it—_

“Home,” Keith whispers. His voice shatters over the lone syllable.

Lance tears his gaze to look out the window and he _sees._ His vision is still muddled at the edges, but there’s enough for him to get an eyeful of a planet he’s seen in so many photos and films and textbooks at the Garrison, it’s permanently etched into his base, human memory.

A human being of Earth.

The face of the planet is dark, but there’s a perfect ring of orange-white-blue that illuminates its edges. And then, as they watch, a single pinprick of red light appears. It expands, sending out a brilliant ruby corona that swells and swells before it turns white, so bright Lance has to squint, but he doesn’t want to look away. He couldn’t if he tried.

The light fills and fills, sending bright streams across the curvature of Earth, bringing the new day. The whole deck glows.

Lance can’t help it. His chest feels like it’s going to rip apart into a million pieces. He’s not just cold, he’s _freezing_ , and the chatter in his teeth hasn’t stopped since he awoke in Keith’s arms.

He begins to cry. Huge, fat tears that are too hot for his iced cheeks, streaming in thick rivulets down his face. He buries his face halfway into Keith’s jacket but can’t make himself look away from the sunrise. Keith’s arms wrap around him, squeezing him tight.

The salt fills his mouth, but there is no terror that shadows its presence. Not this time.

_We’re going home._

***

He can’t even take his first steps properly. It’s embarrassing, really, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.  His legs are shaking too much to take the steps down off the ship himself, so Lance limps along with an arm around Hunk. He’s propping him up so much his feet barely brush the sand.

Sand. Real, honest-to-God tangible sand. Even through his boots Lance can feel the warmth of it. He stares down at it all, letting himself be blinded by how the sun reflects off of every surface. It’s so bright, and so _warm._ Everything smells like the ocean. He feels as if he’s dreaming.

“Where’s your house?” Shiro asks, turning around. The light is bouncing off his prosthetic, turning his whole arm into a giant gleaming hunk of metal. Lance wonders, in a moment of frantic hilarity, if it’s uncomfortable.

“Just a few blocks away.” He hobbles along as quick as he dares, Hunk keeping pace the whole way.

Not all of them make the walk to Lance’s home. Pidge had pointed out that the presence of an alien race might put any regular humans on edge, and they were right. Allura and Coran had to stay behind, marveling the lush Earth beach from the ship’s windows.

For the rest of them, though.. This is their first walk on Earth in years.

The time is early — it can’t be past eight in the morning. The overhead marine layer is dissipating, burning away to reveal the edges and stony curves of human architecture. There’s almost nobody on the street, either. In a far away part of Lance’s brain, he realizes that it must be somewhere in June.

The house looks.. almost the same. The fence is getting old, and the grass in their yard is sparser than usual. There aren’t any toys out anymore, either. But there’s still the hammock, swinging precariously, and the same doormat edged in seashells.

Shiro doesn’t say anything, but he steps aside and gestures silently for Lance to come forward. Lance can’t smell the salty air anymore, or taste anything. His mouth is so dry he can hardly breathe. The doorbell dings quietly under his fingers. They stand, a solemn cluster of five in the early morning, and wait.

_It’s taking too long,_ he can’t help but think. He isn’t counting at all, but it feels like it’s taking too long. Someone had to be awake, right? It was eight, but his Mama always got up at seven for her coffee, and _what if this was the wrong house?_ Acid is coming up, squeezing into his throat, and Lance begins to tremble under Hunk’s arm. _What if—_

The door swings open.

There’s a split second, Lance can tell, that she doesn’t register who they are. The confusion leaves her face clear, mouth slack, brow smooth —  but then it _hits_ her. Her eyes are crinkling, squeezing up so tightly that the tears are having trouble leaking out but they _are._ Salt streaking down her weathered face. Mouth twisting into a watery smile. Lance realizes, from somewhere above it all, that her expression mirrors his own. He can taste his tears slipping past his lips.

“Mama,” he whispers. “I’m home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally planned to have one more scene at the end of this with that sweet heavy-duty klance, but I figured I would let this piece focus more on Lance's love for his family. Instead, the epilogue/aftermath will be its own piece. Keep an eye out!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) if u wanna, I got enough Takis for everybody (:


End file.
